


There's Blood in the Walls

by TehChou



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: blindfold_spn, Gore, Horror, M/M, Psychological Torture, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehChou/pseuds/TehChou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's got an idea in his head and Lucifer doesn't like it. It's his job to show him why.</p>
<p>Written for the prompt: http://community.livejournal.com/blindfold_spn/3417.html?thread=4615513#t4615513</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's Blood in the Walls

There's a tiny hole in the wall. Sam is staring at it, watching it intently. He'd been pacing the motel room, back forth, back forth, upset and angry at Dean who hasn't come back, again. Didn't call, though Sam knows who he's out with. It doesn't matter, pointless, stupid.

There's a hole in the wall. It draws his eyes to it, a little speck of black absorbing light, radiating with dark. He frowns and kneels before it, runs a hand over it, feels the indent against his finger. Tattered wall paper and drywall flakes under his touch, raining to the ground. The hole is made bigger. Sam stares at it, frowning, face twisted in an unidentifiable emotion. He hooks a finger into the hole, worries at it, pulls and tugs. It cracks and dissolves bit by tiny bit.

He pulls back, eventually, face bathed in sweat. It's dripped onto the floor around him, soaking him and the moldering carpeting.

The hole is big enough to fit two fingers in, now and the sun has come up behind him. He stands, looks down at himself, disgusted and goes to take a shower.

When he comes back out, toweling his hair off his eyes are drawn, again to the hole. He watches it as he dries himself. Moves towards it. The patch of wet carpeting is dry, now and he kneels at the same spot.

He sticks a finger in and the hole wraps tight around it, barely enough room to move. He lets out a tiny, distressed cry and draws back, staring at it in confusion. He gets up, goes to his bag and rifles through it with subdued energy, towel dropped forgotten on the floor, naked and muttering to himself. He finds what he's looking for, a metal file, long and coarsely grooved. He goes back to the hole and sits before it. Dry wall puffs up around him making him sneeze, but he worries at the hole unceasingly.

The sun has gone down and it is the size of his fist. Satisfied he leans back on his heels, then stands. He turns away, craving coffee. He fusses with it for a long moment, sets it to drip, pulls on a pair of pants, then leans against the counter to wait. He can just see the edges of the hole, now most of it blocked by the television stand. He shifts his stance. He doesn't need to see the hole, it's there, it's fine. Nothing's changed. Nothing.

He cranes his neck to look at it, almost tripping over himself as he stumbles closer.

It's the size of a pea. 

He swears, and is over there in two long strides and skids over to it on his knees, bent down and frantically scratching at it with his fingernails, one snaps off and peals away from his finger with a wet sound. Sam howls and drags it back, clutching at it and swearing. He goes to the duffel lying closed on the bed, opens it roughly, thick blood from his finger splattering against the hotel sheets. He grips the gun with a triumphant noise, loads it with blood slicked hands, cocks it, aims and shoots.

The wall explodes in a shower of drywall and old wallpaper. Satisfaction curls through him and he shoots it, again, then again until the wall is a pathetic looking skeleton and the darkness covers half the wall.

He sits back on the bed, flops down and sighs, gun cradled tight against his chest. It's over, done with. He lets his breath lull him into a dreamless sleep.

__________________

He opens his eyes to brightness. It pours through the curtains and burns his eyes and he groans, groggily and sits up. He lets out a low, keening helpless whine. The hole is gone. There is nothing on the wall but ugly wall paper, not even a crack to show it's was ever there. He tears apart the room looking for it, throws the TV to the ground, yanks the bed away from the wall but there's nothing. Defeated and groggy he goes into the bathroom to wash his face, splashes cool water on it, tries to wake up. He looks up into the mirror and stares.

The hole's on his face. He stares at it, distressed. It itches, crawling with sensation now that he knows it's there. He twitches a finger towards the reflection of it, leaving oiled streaks across the mirrored surface, blurring out thick lines. He jerks himself away from the sight, crashes out of the bathroom, tries hard not to think about it, but there are reflective surfaces everywhere in the room. The glass coffee pot is sent to the ground with a crash, the curtains are drawn tight to cover the glare. There, the barrel of the gun is shining pale with his face smooth but for the black blob that mars it. He hisses, snatches up the gun and slides it under the covers, ignoring it completely as best he can. He scratches his face, reflexively fingers catching in the black hole. He swears, yanks his hand away but he's felt it now and he tries to sit on his hands, tries hard not to think but he keeps catching himself touching it, digging his fingers into the flesh of his face and tugging. He tries not to, tries so hard but he can't stop and finally he gives in, standing up, back into the bathroom where he can stare at it, watch as he peels away layers of skin in strips, fingers wet with fresh blood, muscle a pulsing throb around the blackness in his face. He jabs a finger deep in and it squishes wetly, tears and Sam is crying, now, hot salt water tears that burn against his ruined flesh.

_________________

A man comes in the room and watches him for long moments, then leaves. Sam has pulled the curtains open once more and is staring out at the brightness. It burns his eyes, leaves his ruined flesh dry in the harshness of it. Time is a liquid thing that ebbs and flows past him and he doesn't know how long it's been when the man comes back, again. He's behind him. Sam can feel him there, still and silent. Eventually Dean comes back, fucks some woman on the bed and is gone, again. Sam sits on the bed and stares out the window and the man hovers. The sensation of him is claustrophobic and when he leaves a great pressure is removed from behind his eyes. Every time he comes he gets closer, his presence swelling in the dingy room.

 

Eventually he is close enough that Sam starts to see him out of the corner of his eyes, a marring gray spot against the riotous sunlight. He no longer leaves and instead moves like the moon, slowly blocking out the sun. Dean is having some kind of party behind him, or maybe he's just watching the TV. Someone laughs long and loud. The shadow is engulfing him now and Sam blinks, slow, movements like molasses. When he opens his eyes and the shadow is gone.

When he closes his eyes the darkness behind them dances.

__________________

He doesn't know why he's hard. He doesn't feel anything down there, can only see it, watch the effects. One of the women Dean brought home is staring at it, eyes hungry. She looks like a wild dog and her skin wraps tightly around her face like a preserved corpse. She slathers her mouth around his cock. Her teeth digging bloody ruts into the flesh, mouth a million teeth, tongue rough as sandpaper, taking great rasping chunks out of it. She looks up at him and grins and there's blood all over her face and hanks of skin stuck between her teeth.

Sam stretches his mouth, lips thinning along his face. He pays her and she leaves.  
_________________  
Dean is dead beneath his hands. His flesh is a riot of color, bruises fresh or rotting on his face. His eyes are bulged out of his sockets. Sam has twisted his fingers into the sucking hollow of his chest, had squeezed and squeezed until his heart stopped beating. He sinks into that hollow, lets his brother wrap himself around his body, swallows him up until he's falling and falling and never hitting ground.

_____________

There is face before him and Sam knows it's the man who's been watching him. His skin is ruined, flaking away, gray like ash in the pale darkness. Embers glow white-hot beneath his skin, burning up his flesh. It flakes away in the pale darkness, floating ash that settles in Sam's hair and on his skin. It molders there, parting the skin to coal and sinks down, down deep. The man is moving towards him, shattered face looming. His lips are ice cold when they meet Sam's and it shoots through him, flows all the way down to his toes and pools heavily in his gut. The man is twisting himself around Sam, dry, flaking fingers curled against Sam's naked hip. The scent of burnt flesh fills his nostrils and pain hits him with a horrible sharpness. Sam cries out, screaming into the man's mouth but he's paralyzed and he can't move, can't even twitch but for his head. The man is invasive, is sinking deep into places he shouldn't, each little part of him that he's hooked into Sam coming alive with white fire that electrifies him, pain and pleasure racing through his system. The man's flesh wiggles like fiery maggots against his skin and Sam shudders and cries out again and the man is laying him down, gentle, easy and Sam can see the love in his eyes, terrible and perfect. Wings burst from its back, flinging flies in all directions that buzz in Sam's ears loud and raucous. It's like a celebration and Sam surges against the man, body suddenly free as the flies burst around him, burst into larvae that litter the ground white and undulating. They touch the man's skin and burn up or freeze, shatter the scatter away on the wind. It's a beautiful sight, captivating and Sam watches with awe in his eyes, reaches around the man to touch his wings. The man sighs against Sam, wraps him in the paper wings and presses him into the ground. He breathes in at his neck and Sam shudders. The sensation of being surrounded by this man is stiffing, hot and Sam pleads with him and he laughs, a dry sound like rasping leaves and when he enters him Sam almost weeps with relief because it's cold and he squirms against is, thrashing his head back and forth in ecstasy.

_Let me in Sam, and I'll show you pleasures you will never believe, but go against me when I'm there and it will tear you apart._

White light flashes and burns at his eyes, sinking into him, searing his entire body. A whining buzz grows in his ears until it's a crashing howl that rips him apart and he wakes on a scream. His eyes snap open and he sits up, the cool air slapping him in the chest. He's achingly hard and panting like he's just run a marathon. The air is thick with the sour stink of vomit, Sam reeks of it. Dean is on the floor, he notices, suddenly. He's clutching his arm and it's twisted at an odd angle, bone jutting horrible and white from the red slathered on his skin. Dean looks green where he isn't gray and Sam stands up quickly, everything else abruptly forgotten and goes to him. He did it, he knows he did.

“Dean, Dean I'm sorry. Are you OK? Shit, shit, I'm so sorry.”

“What the Hell is wrong with you,” his brother hisses between panting breaths. He kicks a foot hard against the ground in pain, glares at his brother.

“It's fine,” he snaps. “Just get the first aid kit you fucking ape.”

Sam blinks, wide-eyed and uncomprehending for a long moment and Dean gives him a withering look.

“For my arm,” he gasps. “What have you gone simple?!” Sam starts, then scrambles to his feet, running to the door. He can hear Bobby shouting in the room below, calling up to them, voice muffled through the floor.

“It's Dean,” he yells back. “Dean's hurt, get the aid kit.”

He turns back just for a moment to look at Dean. He's staring at him, eyes wide and haunted, but the look shutters instantly and he looks away. Sam, feeling nauseous, stumbles down the stairs.

Something in Sam's head laughs.


End file.
